Cyclical
by teenage-dirtbag
Summary: Derek Shepherd leapt over every hurdle life gave him; it was when he'd gotten good that he tripped. MD


**A/N: Another one shot to tide me over before the season finale! I hate Rose.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Grey's Anatomy.**

**Cyclical**

* * *

When Derek Shepherd was four years old, his father died. His mother cried, his sisters cried, but of course, _he_ couldn't cry. No, he was the only boy left in the family and it was up to him to live up to his father's shadow. When Derek Shepherd was four years old, deprived of a parent and living in a small flat just outside of Manhattan, he started sucking his thumb. He would do it, unknowingly, on the nights he couldn't sleep and he stayed up late enough to hear his mother's sobs. He would do it, unknowingly, every time he saw proud fathers drop their children off to school. He would let go of Kathleen's hand and start walking a little faster.

When Derek Shepherd was seven years old, he put his thumb to his lips for a last time. It was then that he met Mark Sloan.

* * *

"Come on, Mark, your dad's going to be looking for you."

"Ah, who cares." Mark put another coin in the slot and heard the familiar piercing tones of the video game. "Come on, Derek, I can't finish all of these quarters by myself. Besides, isn't this better than Science?"

Derek shook his head and laughed. He grabbed a handful of quarters. "You have a point."

Mark ignored him. Derek started playing. And playing. And he didn't stop.

* * *

Derek took a shortcut to the arcade one day. He ran, glancing his watch, his lithe, fifteen year old body moving with the wind. It was three forty-five; his mother expected him at four thirty. The change was jiggling in his pocket; his hair was getting in his face, his shoelaces getting untied—

—she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Striking green eyes and soft vanilla talc filled his senses. He smiled and she smiled, and the stark green apron caught his attention. She worked at the deli. Her name was Nicole and it escaped his lips like a song he had wanted to sing all his life.

It was four fifteen and he was walking home in a daze. He'd forgotten all about the arcade.

* * *

"Cabo, Derek. Cabo. In Mexico."

"I have to get into med school."

"I already asked my dad's personal assistant to get us first class tickets."

"I have to get into med school."

Mark glared at Derek, or whatever there was left of Derek; it looked like a book with hair.

"Girls and tequila. And scotch. And did I mention girls?"

Derek perked his head up, his interest piqued. Mark looked hopeful. Derek returned to reading his book. "Med school."

* * *

All he could see was fiery red hair. Derek craned his neck to see the only person who spoke up after his lengthy report on cystic fibrosis. She had corrected him, embarrassed him in front of his peers and fellow future doctors. The professor nodded numbly, congratulating Derek on his report and commending the girl whom he would later come to know as Addison Montgomery. She raised an eyebrow at him tauntingly.

He shouldn't have done anything. Instead, he smiled, his eyes sparkling. And her face was the colour of her hair.

Cystic fibrosis is the condition in which... _Hi, I'm Addison._

* * *

"How was your day?" Addison asked, her voice showing the faint traces of exhaustion.

"Excellent. I removed a tumor growing in the lining of the skull today," Derek replied, rubbing his eyes. "How was _your_ day?"

"I delivered quadruplets," she sighed. She looked out the window and saw a horse-drawn carriage pass by Central Park. Two figures were huddled in the middle, their shapes obscured by a blanket. She could almost hear them laughing. "Do you want to take a walk tomorrow?"

Derek looked at his wife. "I have an early morning surgery tomorrow, sweetie. Maybe another time," he yawned.

Addison nodded. Lives were always more important than marriages.

* * *

It was a Wednesday when he'd walked in on his wife sleeping with his best friend. A Wednesday when he packed his bags, determined to leave his whole world behind. A Wednesday when he first stepped into the muddy grounds of Seattle; it had been raining.

Today is Wednesday. Derek Shepherd is at Joe's bar, like all of the other Wednesdays before this, drinking his usual double scotch, single malt. He learned to numb the memory of him and Mark drinking the same drink every Wednesday at the Plaza Hotel bar after the second glass.

It was a Wednesday when he sat next to a lonely looking girl with a pretty black dress and said, I'm someone you want to get to know. And she smiled. And he stopped hating Wednesdays after that.

* * *

"Meredith," Derek said, "I do love you. Don't you see? Don't you understand? You're the love of my life. I can't leave you."

Meredith wanted to say that she loved him too. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and lose all sensations to his kiss. But she needed to be sure she could. She loved Derek, she did, but—

"Cristina is getting married. I have to go make sure she gets married."

* * *

By any standards, he'd be considered lucky, really, still getting it right the third time. She was beautiful and kind and smart and everything he would have wanted to have. She understood the rigorous demands of his career and indulged his silly fantasies of trailers in empty lots. She was wonderful, truly amazing.

Derek could fool anyone, even himself, but not the people who knew him the most. Mark teased him for not sleeping with her and Addison almost threw him off the bridge way when she found out that she had hugged Meredith for nothing.

They were wrong. Like Addison was wrong for sleeping with Mark. And Mark was wrong for sleeping with Addison.

But he finds himself stealing glances more often, a whiff of her perfume giving him an addicting high. Rose squeezes his hand, and he can't help but wish it was hers instead.

* * *

"I hoped," Meredith admitted sadly.

Derek sighed. "Me too."

She looked up at him. "I'm sorry I hoped."

"No," Derek said, "we're going to get it right. We'll hope, and we'll do." _She wants greatness for me._ "And we'll get it right, Meredith."

* * *

There was something about ferry boats that calmed him down right away. Mark would unwind on sex and alcohol, but Derek was never that kind of guy. He tried to be, but ferry boats proved to be much better therapy. He could remember every rippling sensation to his skin, every strand touched by the wind, every groove in the water made by the boat as he stood there, alone. Occasionally he would see a man and a woman leaning on the rails, holding each other's hand in mutual trust and support... and love.

He brought Addison to the ferry boats every chance he could, making up for the missed and forgotten Central Park carriage rides. His face would drop every time she turned around to admire the view; she did not smell like lavender.

It was when Derek suggested that he buy his own boat that Mark knew he'd lost his mind. So he took Derek on a boat with an unknown destination, hiding a flask of scotch in his leather jacket. Ferry boats always brought out everything in Derek, and the flask was a just-in-case.

* * *

"Are you okay?" Meredith asked as she and Derek were scrubbing in.

"I'm fine," he replied distractedly.

"Sure?" she asked again, looking at him intently.

He was silent for a moment, the sound of running water humming in the background. He looked at his hands. "I used to suck my thumb all of the time," he started, "when I was a kid. No one ever really knew. It was like this big secret." He could see Meredith smiling. "I was seven when I stopped."

She nodded. "You ready?"

"No," he answered, turning his attention to her. "I tried to, but no."

Meredith looked at him curiously. "If you—"

"Meredith," he said, his voice gentle and caressing, looking at her, "you're the hardest habit to break."

* * *

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